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UNITED STATES OF AMEKICA. 



BOUND Br 

Randolph & English, 
Eichmond. Va. 



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"Moss-covered roof and mildewed walls, 
And battered door, and old in years, it stands 
A sign of peace and plenty in the land." 



OTTERDALE 



OR 



Pen Pictures of Farm Life, 



AND 



Other Pobms, 



^^ 



BY 

/ 

GRAHAM CLAYTOR 

LIBERTY, VA. 




J. W. RANDOLPH & ENGLISH 

1302-4 Main St., Richmond, Va. 

1885. 






copyrighted, 1ss5, 
By graham CLAYTOR. 



From the Press of 

^^^M:. ellis jones, 

RICHMOND, VA. 



DEDICATED 



TO 



THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 



" O take the bright shell from its home on the lea, 
And where ever it goes 'twill sing of the sea ; 
So take the fond heart from its home and its hearth, 
And 'twill sing of the loved ones to the ends of the earth. 



Kind, gentle Reader, If thy heart still cling 
In tender recollections round the scenes 
Of early days, then leave awhile the marts 
Of busy trade, and roam with me about 
The old ancestral home, and shout along 
Its ancient halls and climb its winding stairs ; 
And loiter along the old familiar paths, 
Across the fields to church and school and mill ; 
And clamber up the steep and lofty cliffs. 
And fish and bathe within the limpid streams. 
And feel again the glow of youthful dreams. 



OTTERDALE. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 



Upon a hill, a gentle hill that slopes 
Towards the setting sun, the olden mansion stands, 
Deep bosomed in the tall ancestral trees, 
Beneath whose pendent boughs and genial shades 
Our fathers played a hundred years ago. 
Hard by the garden gate, the sycamore 
Uprears its dark form towards the deep blue sky, 
And fondly stretches out its arms above 
The shingle roof. Two friendly locust trees 
Stand guard beside the old front gate, that ope's 
A welcome to the touch of every hand. 
Green cedars cluster here and there, and keep 
Their silent watch, while broad mulberry trees, 
Whose boughs so intertwine that scarce a ray 
Of sunshine penetrates their foliage. 
Encircle all the yard; no bush or shrub 
Grows 'neath to mar the beauty of the rich 
Blue grass that carpets o'er the spacious lawn. 



OTTERDALE. 



Along the garden wall the bee hives range 

Beneath the ancient pear tree's prickly branch, 

And all the livelong day a busy stream 

Of insect life is flowing in and out. 

From spicy groves and blooming fields they come 

On tipsy wing, and bring their precious stores 

And fill the hives with golden honeycomb. 

A full broad acre here of garden ground. 

With shady vine-clad walks and well tilled squares, 

Where peas and butter-beans and early corn 

In rich abundance thrive, where crimson rose 

And tulips rare and purple lilacs grow, 

And mock birds nest among the leafy boughs ; 

And just above the barn the orchard trees, 

With their old gnarled and twisted limbs — so old — 

Still drop their o'er ripe fruit. They seem like 

friends 
Of long departed days : we know their names, 
And as we gaze upon their ancient forms. 
There comes again the sound of merry sport — 
The apples ripe in June — the autumn time — 



OTTERDALE. 



The cider-press — the sparkHng, foaming juice 
We big-mouthed youngsters drank with such 
deHght. 

The house of Parian Marble is not built, 

But solid brick and stone and oaken sills 

Complete the ancient structure where it stands. 

It has its cellars, and its corners dark ; 

Its garret and its dormer windows tall ; 

Its porch decayed, and winding stairs, and halls. 

Now cast thine eyes far o'er the western hills, 

Behold ! a broad expanse of landscape rich 

In undulating beauty lies: wild wood 

And gently rolling hills and verdant fields 

And laughing brooks fed by a thousand rills ; 

And all along the horizon, distant, dim, 

A circling range of dark, blue mountains rise 

In dreamy grandeur to the mellow sky. 

Such scenes as these surround the quiet home 

Of Otterdale. From city's turmoil far 

Removed, here Sabbath stillness reigns. Along 

The public road no signs of travel are. 



10 OTTERDALE. 



Save now and then the mill-boys with their "turns," 

Ride slowly by ; and oft far in the night 

We hear the market wagon rumbling on 

To yonder neighboring town. The preacher too 

Upon his "circuit" here will rest awhile, 

When all the neighboring folks together come 

And join the man of God in prayer and song, 

And if along the road a stranger pass, 

He pauses here beneath the tempting shade, 

And drinks deep draughts of water cool and clear 

From yonder bubbling spring beneath the hill, 

And thus refreshed, with pleasant thoughts rides on. 

And when the autumn fields and woods are brown 

Our city cousins come with dog and gun. 

And hook and line, and hunt and shoot the quail, 

Or fish for trout within the limpid stream. 

Here in this snug retreat the Farmer lives ; 

Here tills the soil and reaps a rich reward — 

And Peace and Plenty smile benignly down. 

Possessions small, but simple all his wants. 
Lord of his castle, Governor and King ; 



OTTERDALE. 11 



Fee-simple owner of his lands by right 

Of honest toil ; — he owes no living man, 

His faithful wife is frugal, loving, kind. 

From tempting vices far removed, his sons 

Are reared in love, obedience, temperance, truth 

His Faith, a rock where breakers dash in vain, 

And here in rich contentment unalloyed 

He tranquil spends his life's allotted days. 



12 OTTERDALE. 



THE MILL. 



Come, let us loiter along- the winding path 

And towards the Mill — e'en now the neighboring 

boys 
Are bathing in the cool and limpid stream. 

An evening — this in June. The breezes blow 
Soft through the piny groves on Malvern hill. 
And meadow grass is fresh and sweet and green, 
And o'er the fields and wood a mellow gleam 
Of golden sunshine rests. Bright, amber clouds 
Float lazily along the skies, and cast 
Their shadows in the brook. Pause on the bridge — 
Yet scarce a bridge, for half the floor is gone. 
And all the railings, too, are broken down. 
The lichens and the mosses clingr around 
The old worm-eaten boards ; the wagons long 
Have ceased to pass across the dangerous way : 
Sometimes a straggling horseman ventures o'er, 



OTTERDALE. 13 



And thus he saves a circuit round the hill. 
Here once a year the Sunday schools turn out 
With heavy baskets laden to the brim 
With fruit and cake and all good things, and hold 
Their annual festival. xA^nd here in May 
When hawthorns blossom and the violets bloom 
We come with flowers and leaves plucked from 

the fields 
And sylvan wood, and crown our Queen of May, 
And here the brook goes dashing, splashing on 
And throws its silver spray o'er moss and fern, 
And circling eddies foam beneath each fell. 

A lovely, dreamy, sacred spot is this ; 
The tall, luxuriant trees shut out the sun, 
Save here and there a struggling beam peeps thro' 
The leaves and falls aslant the stream. 'Tis here 
The woodland birds delight their songs to sing. 
And here the daisies and the violets bloom 
And shed their sweetest fragrance on the air, 
And often here the bashful lovers come 
And sit upon the mossy mound at foot 



14 ^TTERDALE. 



Of yonder tree, and drink sweet music in 
Of woodland bird and tinkling silver stream, 
And talk of love and dream their golden dreams, 

The bridge we leave behind, and down we wind 
By yonder tall o'erhanging cliff. How steep ! 
And yet we've climbed it o'er and o'er again, 
And gathered ferns from yonder jagged rock, 
And rolled huge boulders o'er yon towering crag, 
And tearing, thundering down the yawning sides 
They dashed and splashed into the gurgling stream; 
And now the path creeps snake-like underneath 
The tangled ivy and o'er slippery rock — 
Not far from here the Mill must be — for see, 
The saw-dust floats along the turbid stream, 
And here's the public road and there — looms up 
The Mill ! 

Moss-covered roof and mildewed walls, 
And battered door, and old in years, it stands 
A sign of peace and plenty in the land. 
'Tis built far o'er the water, yet the road 
Can scarcely pass along that way — so near 



OTTERDALE. 15 



The towering cliff comes down. The old stone dam 

Has stood against a hundred rushing floods; 

So smooth and evenly the water falls, 

That, as it shimmers in the silver sheen 

Of summer's sun, it seems a moving sheet 

Of solid crystal clear, and here all day 

The busy clacking of the wheel is heard. 

Long line of sleepy horses block the way 
Along the broken fence, and in the sun 
They idly switch their tails and wait their "turns;" 
The chuffy miller stands before the door, 
White with the dusty meal, and waits upon 
Each customer that brings his little " turn." 
And all along the winding stream the boys 
Are clambering up the steep and lofty cliffs 
And calling forth loud echoes from the glens, 
And some are fishing down below the dam, 
Or paddling in the swift and narrow ford. 
While others, bolder than the rest, will leap 
From tall o'erhanging rocks and dive beneath 
Still waters in the pond. Such glorious fun ! 



16 OTTERDALE. 



O day of days ! no day like this — no bliss 
Is half so sweet as this! — to bathe — to fish — 
To roll o'er golden sands along the shore — 
To leap — to run — to shout among the cliffs — 
No bliss, I ween, is half so sweet as this ! 

And now the sun is nearly down. The boys 
Have gone, each to his home — the busy Mill 
Still clatters on, and down the road the cows 
*' Come slowly home" ; I hear their tinkling bells 
Sound sweet and clear across the meadow field. 
The bleating calves, their hungry noses thrust 
Between the cow-pen bars and anxious wait 
Their tardy coming down the winding lane. 

And now the quiet gloaming spreads a charm 
Around the house, the orchard and the lawn ; 
And in and out among the shadows dim 
We roll and romp, and play at "hide and seek," 
'Till quiet summons come, and then — to sleep. 



OTTERDALE. 17 



THE HARVEST. 



TIs harvest time. Now all the neighboring hands 

With merry song and gleaming blades go forth 

To reap the golden grain. The harvesters 

Are sturdy, fresh and strong. Their manly forms 

Mind not the scorching rays of summer's sun; 

They scorn the man who seeks the cooling shades 

Of wood and grove, they labor with a zest 

And deem their task a glorious privilege. 

Mark how yon " leader," proud in his own strength. 

Wields with his brawny arm the flashing blade, 

How in long, graceful, sweeping curves he fells 

The golden grain upon the stubble field ; 

The gleaners gather up the yellow stalks 

And bind them into sheaves ; the shockers come 

And dot the field with graceful cone-like heaps : 

And thus the band of laborers march on 

'Neath summer's darting rays, — a moment's pause 

To whet the blades, or quench the rising thirst. 



18 OTTERDALE. 



Then pressing on they cut through rankest grain — 
Through brush and bramble and the prickly thorn — 
The rabbit starts, the yelping hounds give chase — 
The partridge, frightened, flies and leaves her nest, 
And on they march, nor cease their arduous task 
Until the sun from his meridian height 
Points to the hour of noon, or conch-shell's loud 
And welcome notes wind over hill and dale ; 
'Tis then the harvesters their labors cease, 
Lay down their blades upon the stubble field 
And homeward go ; their journey o'er, they stretch 
Their tired limbs beneath the shady grove, — 
In slumber sweet, their eyes, a moment close 
And rising, bathe their brawny arms and hands, 
And sunburnt faces, in the cooling stream 
That flows perennial, from yon bubbling spring. 

Their simple toilet o'er, they gather 'round 
The harvest board, where smokes the tempting meal. 
Spread out beneath kind heaven's shining arch. 
No frugal board is their's ; whate'er of good 
The lavish garden grows, or smiling fields. 



OTTERDALE. 19 



Or orchards yield, makes up the harvest meal ; 
Now every head in lowly reverence bows 
And grateful hearts pour out their thanks to God, 
Who gives to honest toil, such sweet reward. 

O, ye ! who quaff rich Rhenish wines, who feast 
On canvas-back, within the glittering halls 
Where oriental splendor reigns, where strains 
Of music swell, and tinkling fountains play, 
Ye never knew the love, the joy, the zest 
That wait upon the laborer's simple feast. 

The noon is past, the evening shadows come, 
Back to the fields the harvesters are gone. 
The rising cloud — the thunder's distant sound 
Behind the mountains tell of coming storm, 
*' Bend to it men !" the stalwart leader cries, 
*'A storm is brewing along the western sky," 
Quick flash the blades — down fall the waving grain. 
The binders close press on the reapers' heels — 
The harvest must be saved, before the storm's 
Destructive torrent sweeps the fields along. 



20 OTTERDALE. 



THE STORM. 



The storm-cloud hovers now o'er mountain top — 
Is sweeping down the hollow sides — has reached 
The vales below, and surging, roaring comes — 
Quick flash the blades — down falls the waving 

grain, 
And deeper sound the thunder's bellowing tones, 
Along the skies the lurid lightning darts, 
And clouds of dust along the roads arise. 
" Bend to it men," the stalwart leader shouts, 
"■ A few more lively strokes and all is well " 
The rain is falling now on Malvern Hill, 
And sweeping down through Catlett's lonely glen ; 
Great drops are falling here and darting there, 
Like skirmishers before advancing lines. 
Press on, ye men ! the work is nearly done. 
Press on ! press on! one stroke — the last — 'tis done! 
Now let the storm in fury spend its force, 
The golden stalks are down — the last sheaf bound — 



OTTERDALE. 21 



The harvest o'er — the laborers safe at home. 
The hens and all their brood are gathered in 
Their little hovels, and the line of clothes, 
And heaps of drying fruit on garden wall, 
In porch and hall are snugly packed away ; 
Each window down and every shutter fast, 
And closed each door against the raging storm- 
It rains, it pours, it trickles down the trees, 
And beats against the panes, and oozes through 
The crack beneath the door, and from the roof 
It rolls like waving sheets upon the wind, 
And gathering into little pools and streams 
Rolls on to swell the brook beneath the hill, — 
O glorious rain that cools the parched earth ! 
And gives to tree and plant and every herb 
A newer life, O pour thy showers along. 
Enrich the fields and fill the farmer's barns ! 
The storm abates and fitful showers fall, 
The thunder's muttering sounds die slow away 
Along the dark and lowering eastern sky ; 
Long line of skylight gleams along the west — 
It broadens — now the sun in splendor bursts 



%% OTTERDALE. 



Through straggling clouds and glittering drops of 

rain, 
And paints the heavens with rain-bow's graceful 

arch ; 
The birds come out and chant their evening songs, 
And nature wears her sweetest, brightest smile. 
Long lines of fleecy clouds float lazily 
Above the mountain range, mark how they change, 
Now snowy white — now fringed with amber hue — 
Now flaming red — now tinted o'er with gold — 
Now rolling into strange and weird shapes. 
Like fairy landshapes floating o'er a sea 
Of liquid ether blue — now melt away — 
And naught appears along the limpid sky. 
And now the sun departing takes his leave 
And mellow twilight softly steals along, 
And laughing stars from tender skies look down. 
The harvest moon peeps over Pisgah's Hill, 
And fields and woodland, streams and mountain- 
top 
All in a dreamy splendor clad. The winds 
In silence sleep, and laborers weary, worn, 



OTTERDALE. 23 



Are lapped in softest slumber sweet. 

There let 
Them sleep ! — disturb thou not their peaceful 

dreams 
Or quiet rest ; for they have need of rest. 
A day's work done of hard and honest toil — 
And comes the "balm of each day's life " sweet 

sleep. 
There let them sleep ! for sleep is sweet to them. 
Brings many a peaceful dream of happy homes — 
Brings life and strength and hope to weary limbs — 
There let them sleep ! a week of work is done, 
To-morrow's dawn will bring a Sabbath morn. 



24 OTTERDALE. 



SABBATH. 



O sweet and blessed dawn of Sabbath mom ! 
We hail with joy, thy footsteps on the farm ! 
Fling open now the door and windows wide. 
And let the air, refreshed by yesrer een's 
Sweet cooling rains, flow gently in. O day 
Of blissful rest for toiline man and beast. 
We hail with joy thy footsteps on the farm ! 

The sun shines briorhdv now on Otterdale, 
And birds sing sweedy 'mid its leafy groves : 
The bees hum dreamingly about the blooms. 
And flowers in silence shed their sweet perfume 
The fowls rap .azily their downy wings, 
And smooth the fearhtrs en their ruftled backs: 
The sleepy oxen stand and chew the cud. 
And idle horses browse u^on the lawn : 
The placid stream flows slowly by the Mill, 
But turns no wheel — the wheel is still, for now 



OTTERDALE. 25 



The Miller sits before his humble cot. 
While Dora, eldest, smooths his silver locks : 
And mother's hands dress out the boys with care 
In homespun '' Sunday clothes" all bright and new. 
Their little hands and feet washed neat and clean 
They patter along the path to Sunday school — 
Up through the orchard trees and by the barn — 
Behind the woods and over Malvern Hill — 
Across the creek — along the public road— 
And to the ancient church — ah, there it stands I 
The sacred pile, grown old with many years ! 
The mosses creep along the shingle roof 
And ivy twines its tendrils 'round the walls ; 
The old horse block has almost fallen down, 
And from the orave-vard all the fence has o-one. 

Long e'er the Pastor on his old horse comes 
The farmers gather in from neighboring homes, 
Assemble 'round the old church door and sit 
Upon the grass, or roots of trees, or stones. 
Beneath the friendly shade of ancient oaks, 
And gossip there until the "church begin," 



26 OTTERDALE. 



Their simple talk can harm no living folk — 
'Tis of their crops— of farmer Smith's good luck, 
Or neighbor Jones' mishap, or yester e'en's 
Wild storm, or will the morning bring them rain 
Or shine, and thus they pleasantly chat on 
Until the Pastor, from his faithful mare 
With saddle-bags in hand alights and greets 
Each ^'brother" with a hearty shake and smile. 
And fondly pats each youngster on the head. 

The sound of song floats on the Sabbath air — 
Upon the ground the farmers throw their quids, 
File in the door and down the narrow aisle. 
The "women folk " their 'customed places take. 
And sit and sing apart from men and boys. 
Now all the people sing : in quivering tones 
The old men sing — the young folks ope their mouths 
And swell their lungs till church and woodland ring 
Melodious with their hymns to God. 

The singing ceases and on bended knee 

The Man of God pours forth his fervent prayer 



OTTERDALE. 27 



In simple tones for mercy, pity, love — 

All through the house ring out the loud amens, 

And with the Book of Life spread open wide, 

Like Paul, he reasons now of righteousness, 

Of temperance and judgment yet to come. 

And when the lids of that old Book he closed 

No eye in all that little throng was dry, 

His tender, earnest words sank in their hearts 

And silent tears welled up and flowed adown 

The toil-worn cheek of many a hardy son. 

God bless his honest, manly soul. Through rain 
And summer's heat and winter's scathing blast 
He " goes his circuit " faithful to his charge. 
What though his pay be scanty and the wolf 
Be often near his door, he ne'er complains, 
But on his daily round he ever goes. 
With jealous care he guards his little flock. 
Is proud it claims his love and earnest prayer. 
Fulfills his mission with that love and zeal 
Born of a faith as firm and true as steel. 



28 OTTERDALE. 



FEEDING THE SWINE. 



Oh ! didst thou ever stand with feet all bare 
Upon the frozen ground, or lean against 
The old rail fence, and gaze with mute delight 
Upon the feeding swine ? Then come with me, 
The morning sun is peeping o'er the hills 
And flashing full upon the frosted fields, 
Adown the lane, the farmer wends his way 
With basket swung upon his brawny arm, 
Unlocks his well-filled barn of plump rich corn 
And piling in the golden ears, heaps up 
The basket to the brim ; now goes he forth 
And slowly climbs to top of Malvern Hill. 
Clear, keen and bracing is the morning air, 
The sun, in new and sprightly splendor shines 
Upon the woodland, fields and dashing streams, 
The chimneys, peering through the knots of trees, 
Send up their silent wreaths of lazy smoke 
That hovering, spreads like little clouds of mist 



OTTERDALE. 29 



Above each neighboring home. The stillness breaks 

For now the farmer's calling, calling home 

The straggling swine, and clear and deep the 

sound, 
It rolls along the fields and through the vales 
Winds up the creek and lingers in the dells, 
And echoes back from Pisgah's wooded hill. 

The wandering swine catch quick the welcome 

notes, 
And prick their ears and rush along the paths, 
And leave the wood and field and marshy mead 
To eat their morning meal. They gather 'round 
The spot where the Master stands. They pull 
His coat — they follow at his heels and beg 
Like hungry children for their daily bread. 
The cows, too, come, and wistful gaze upon 
His honest face. The frisky colts now leave 
The meadows, and the lambs their gambols cease 
And quit the orchard at the 'customed sound. 
And e'en the ducks and geese come quacking 

'round. 



30 OTTERDALE. 



To fill their craws with great plump grains of corn 
That scattered lie along the frosted ground. 

The hungry swine seize on the husky ears 

And rush about and shake their curly tails, 

And fill their great jaws with the yellow grain. 

The cows, with heads erect and streaming eyes, 

Stand 'round and crush the corn — the cob and all ; 

The colts and lambs touch lighdy along the ground 

For fear their dainty lips with dust be soiled ; 

While greedy geese and ducks scoop up the grains , 

Until their very necks they scarce can bend. 

O, come and watch them here ! What man or beast, 

At any time — in any place or clime — 

E'er ate with half the relish as the swine 

That craunch between their teeth the golden grain? 



OTTERDALE. 31 



THE SCHOOL. 



The frost has melted from the wood and field 
And smoky mists arise from hill and stream ; 
The swine have wandered back to marshy mead, 
The colts and lambs play 'round the orchard trees; 
The laborers wend their way across the fields, 
And all along the paths and roads and lanes 
The boys and girls are trudging on to school. 
Gray squirrels skip along the winding fence, 
And leap from bough to bough among the trees, 
And nuts are dropping down among the leaves ; 
The deep primeval forests tinted o'er 
With mellow hues of autumn's green and gold 
Are waving in the quivering sunlight sheen ; 
Through scenes like these they pass along the 

road 
And towards the old school-house between the 

hills. 
A rude old cabin built of logs, rough hewn 



32 OTTERDALE. 



From trees that grew upon the spot where now 
It stands, and all the cracks between are filled 
With daubs of stiff, red clay, which still retains 
The impress of the unskilled workman's hands. 
Moss-covered stones that lie about the wood, 
Are gathered up and rudely piled around, 
With jagged edges pointing here and there — 
And now a chimney rears its lofty head 
Above the shingle roof. The creaky door 
Would never ope unless 'twas lifted from 
The floor of oaken plank, which never felt 
The touch of planer's tools, and through the gaps, 
The boys oft drop their pencils and their knives; 
A log from out the western end is cut — 
A window this — the writing desk stands here, 
And from the old saw-mill are brought long slabs, 
And benches made — on legs uneven stand. 
And tilt about at slightest touch of hand — 
Such was the school- house of the olden time. 

The Master is a man of haughty mien. 
Upon whose visage fierce no pleasing smile 



OTTERDALE. 33 



E'er dwells — a tyrant on his throne. He ruled 

His little kingdom with a despot's sway ; 

And every urchin trembled as he stood 

Within his august presence ; for he knew — 

Ah, well he knew, the Master would delight 

To flog him then and there, if but a word 

Was missed — 'twas always missed — and weeping, 

cowed. 
The guilty culprit slinks back to his seat, — 
Straightway forgets the Master's switch, — sticks 

pins 
Where Johnny Jones is sure to sit, or writes 
A billetdoux and throws it 'cross the room 
To Ethel Smith, who blushing, slyly hides 
It 'neath her apron folds. 

The recess hour! 
'* Confusion worse confounded !" — out they bound — 
Throw up their hats — roll on the grassy lawn — 
Roam through the woods and climb the tallest trees, 
And throw the ball, and spin the top, and plump 
"The middle man." 

The girls dance 'round the pole, 



34 OTTERDALE. 



And gather mosses, ferns and autumn leaves, 
And snow-white flints among the grass and trees, 
And build them rustic houses in the woods — 
And here artistic genius is displayed : 
Each little house with careful hand is built : 
Of snow-white flinty stones the walls are made. 
And roofed all o'er with ferns and autumn leaves ; 
And velvet mosses carpet all the rooms, 
And pebble walks encircle all the ground — 
Bright little palaces, where wood nymphs dwell, 
And where the elves and fairies often come, 
And dance by moonlight till the early dawn. 

Shout happy boys, and sing ye merry girls, 
And dream your golden dreams while yet ye may ! 
The sterner scenes of active life will come — 
Then to the loom — the needle and the thread — 
The marts of busy trade — the shop — the farm — 
The pulpit, forum, or the Nation's Hall, 
And when the smoke of battle clears away, 
Then go and gather up the trophies that 
Amid the ruins lie ! 



OTTERDALE. 35 



When older grown, 
And standing on the Hill of life, we cast 
A backward glance far down the winding paths. 
From field and sylvan wood and murmuring stream, 
Will rise to view, these youthful haunts and scenes, 
Tinged with the mellow hue of distant years : 
The rude school-house — the Master's visage fierce- 
The merry sports — the gladsome song and shout — 
The faces bright — the sunny smile — the once 
Familiar hand — the voices soft and sweet 
And low, like music from the distant land. 



36 OTTERDALE. 



WINTER. 



The buds of spring to summer blossoms grow ; 
The blossoms fall and autumn fruits appear; 
The fruits are garnered, then the brown leaves fall, 
And winter comes with howling wind and storm. 
Dark, sombre clouds o'ercast the sunny skies, 
And northern blasts make naked, field and wood, 
And rudely brush the roses from the stem, 
And hush to stillness many a gurgling stream. 
No more the woodland birds sing anthems clear ; 
No more sweet perfumes scent the morning air ; 
All pleasant sounds have died from field and wood, 
Save squirrel's bark among the naked trees. 
Or quails' shrill whistle 'mid the rustling leaves ! 

But on the farm the winter has its joys ; 
Who knows this better than the farmer-boy ? 
The harvest o'er and all the barns are filled ; 



OTTERDALE. 37 



Great stacks of hickory wood piled 'round the door; 
The lock-room closely packed with jars of fruit, 
Of damsons, peaches, pears and sugar-plums, 
And in the garret safely stored away, 
Are heaps of apples, chestnuts, walnuts — all 
In waiting for the long, dark winter nights. 

Pile on the wood, and fill the iron dogs 

And let the flames roar up the chimney wide, 

And send the light and warmth around the room! 

Here oft we sit far in the silent night. 

Our lessons con, and chestnuts roast, or list 

To weird tales of goblins and of ghosts ; 

And creep, half frightened, in the dark to bed. 

The silent snow-flakes, dancing, whirling 'round, 
Fall thick and fast upon the frozen ground. 
The waving crystal net-work hides from view 
The clustering cedars there on Malvern Hill, 
The partridge and the snow-bird flock around 
The chaff-pen and the barn, and feed upon 
The shattered grains of barley, wheat or corn ; 



38 OTTERDALE. 

The timid sparrows flit about the eaves, 
And porches of the house, and pick the crumbs, 
That chance to fall around the kitchen door. 
From neighboring fields and woods, we hear loud 

shouts — 
Know whence they come, but see no living form : 
So thick and fast the silent snow-flakes fall. 
The cows and pigs and sheep keep company, 
Beneath the sheltering eaves of yonder barn ; 
The fowls upon their perch, peep slyly out. 
Nor dare to venture from their snug retreat. 

But ah, the boys ! they love the blinding snow ; 

And with light hearts and ruddy, glowing cheeks, 

They bound along the fields and hunt the hare, 

They know each little winding path, and mark 

Each freshly bitten rail along the fence. 

For here, the snare or trap they set, and catch 

The timid rabbit as he nimbly skips 

Along through bramble, brush and piny field. 

The snow-fall ceases and the heavens grow bright, 



OTTERDALE. 39 



The lowering- clouds disperse, and sunbeams burst 

In dazzling splendor over heath and hill; 

The smooth untrodden snow lies o'er the earth 

As white as Parian Marble. In the trees 

It nestles like the down, and falls away 

At lightest breath — along the winding road 

No track has yet been made, save here and there 

A partridge trailed or rabbit skipped across. 

No beauty, think you, in this winter scene ? 
No grandeur in these rolling snow-capped hills ? 
No splendor in the dazzling sunlight sheen? 
No music in the trickling of the streams ? 
The glittering flakes upon the trellised vine — 
The frosted net-work on the bush and tree — 
Icicle dripping down their crystal beads — 
The struggling green among the fallen leaves- 
Half hidden streams beneath the bending weeds — 
The silver snow-clouds drifting on the wind. 
In grandeur, beauty, music, all combine, — 
Then come, and let us scud adown the hills, 
Or skate upon the frozen ponds, or hunt 



40 OTTERDALE. 



Among the pines, and make the forest ring 
Aloud with sound of dog and gun. The snow 
May drift along the road, and keen may blow 
The winds — a cozy room — a fire warm — 
A smoking meal await our coming home. 

Again the silent shades of night fall down 
On Malvern Hill, and quiet hovers 'round 
Sweet Otterdale, The light streams faintly thro' 
The window panes, and struggles through the vines ; 
Tread softly now across the snow, and peep 
Within. The fire is blazing on the hearth. 
The tallow candle burns a flickering flame, 
And ruddy boys and blooming girls sit 'round. 
With books, and toys, and skeins of twisted yarn ; 
Along the floor the kitten rolls the ball, 
And mother darns the sock, or mends the gown, 
And father scans his weekly paper o'er, 
And merry games and weird tales go 'round. 

The monied king may gaze with boastful pride 
Upon his vast domains, may count his gold 



OTTERDALE. 41 



By millions — aye! and Luxury bedecked 
In all her oriental charms may sit 
Enthroned within his walls, yet after all 
May never feel, perchance will never know. 
That honest pride — that blissful peace and joy 
That dwell around the farmer's simple home. 

And now we let the curtain silent fall, 
And leave them 'mid their peaceful joys. 

And yet, 
We love to dwell upon these rural scenes — 
A pure delight they are, and though the years- 
Yea many years have passed away since then, 
Yet fresh and green as 'twere but yesterday, 
They live within our memory; and there 
Like welcome guests, we'll bid them stay, until 
The door and windows of our mortal frame 
Shall open wide, and let the soul go forth — 
And then, and not 'till then, we'll bid adieu, 
To what of earth was precious, pure and true. 



Other Poems, 



L 



OTHER POEMS. 45 



MY PARADISE. 



One early morn of Summer's day, 
Upon my bed I resdess lay — 
I could not sleep the hours away. 

The song of lark from crystal skies, 
Bade me from out my bed arise 
And view an earthly Paradise. 

Across the verdant fields I strolled, 
The morning mist had backward rolled 
And showed a sky all flaming gold, 

And trembling leaves and grassy blade, 
And humblest flower that God had made. 
In pearly drops of dew arrayed. 

The thirsty sunbeams flashed' and fell 



46 OTHER POEMS. 



O'er field and wood, adown die dell, 
Kissed butter-cup and heather-bell, 

Drank pendant drops of silver dew 
From *' daisies pied " and pansles blue. 
And clover bloom and tangled hue ; 

And in the golden sun appears 

The tender corn with silken ears 

And glittering blade and tasseled spears. 

And burdened with the grain they bore, 
The yellow stalks of wheat bend o'er. 
Full ready for the farmer's store. 

The magic hum of busy bees, 

'Mid flowery beds and fragrant trees. 

Lend music to the morning breeze. 

From neighboring pines there came the sound 



OTHER POEMS. 47 



Of cawing crows assembled 'round, 
In hot debate on themes profound. 

The sparrows chirruped from the brush, 
And warbling notes came from the thrush, 
And from the mocking bird did gush 

A stream of sweetest music. Now 
'Twas clear and wild, now sad and low. 
And now it died a faint echo. 

I wandered next to sylvan wood. 
Where olden oaks in grandeur stood 
In all their native solitude. 

Yet not alone, for nature here 
Attunes her harp to anthems clear 
That soothe the soul and please the ear ; 

The breezes blow, each leaf is stirred 



48 OTHER POEMS. 



And" softest, sweetest music's heard 
Commingling with the song of bird. 

From bough to bough the squirrel leapt, 
The woodcock loud his drumming kept, 
The owl in sullen silence slept. 

The lizards skipped along the ground, 
And from the tree-tops came the sound 
Of thousand insects buzzing round. 

Fresh was the air, and redolent 

Of perfumes sweet, from flowers bent 

By honeyed dew from heaven sent. 

O here was something sure to please. 
For here was life in all the trees. 
And here was Hope on every breeze ! 

With careless tread and pensive mood, 



OTHER POEMS. 49 



I wandered on until I stood 

Beside the brook that skirts the wood — 

A modest stream it did appear, 
With silver fountains crystal clear, 
And circling eddies here and there. 

The fish beneath its waters played, 
The birch tree here its home had made, 
The maple spread Its cooling shade. 

And here the ferns and mosses erew, 
The cowslip and the daisy too, 
And reeds and rushes not a few. 

The weeping willows o'er it hung, 
The lilies from Its waters sprung, 
And o'er the flags Its spray was flung. 

And mirrored In the glassy stream, 



50 OTHER POEMS. 

Bright amber- colored clouds did seem 
To float away like poet's dream. 

And as it gurgled neath tlie vine, 
Its music mingled with the pine 
And song of bird in praise divine. 

O swelling hills and valleys green ! 
O shady groves and sunlight sheen ! 
O laughing brooks and skies serene ! 

O beauteous landscape, wondrous bright ! 
In thee my soul finds sweet delight. 
Here fancy takes her boldest flight. 

Great Nature ! as on thee we gaze 
What mighty sculptor's hand we trace ! 
What startling wonders in thy face ! 

Yon tiny globe of silver dew. 



OTHER POEMS. 51 



That glistens in the sunlight hue, 
Unfolds to man's deep piercing view 

A world no human skill can vie ; 

Where mystery and beauty lie, 

Where creatures live and move and die ! 

The bud, the bee, — the insect small, 
The "people" of the sod that crawl 
Or creep — great Nature's children all — 

The flowers that bloom from day to day, 
The murmuring brook, the songster's lay, 
The golden clouds that float away. 

The fragrant air, the soft sunshine. 
All, all in harmony combine 
To make a paradise divine ! 

O weary man in need of rest, 



52 OTHER POEMS. 



burdened soul by care oppressed, 

1 pray thee come and here be blest ! 

From Nature, learn her simple ways, 
How sweet the smiles, how she obeys, 
And smiling gives to God the praise. 



OTHER POEMS. 53 



SUNSET FROM THE HILLS. 

I've wandered here at this still hour, 
I know not why unless "to find 
Calm thoughts beneath the murmuring trees,' 
Low whispering in the wind. 

Yon glorious sun ! how grand it looks 
As slowly 'neath the western hill 
It sinks 'mid crimson tints of gold, 
And leaves the world so still. 

Yon mountains, too, with towering tops, 
How bold and beautiful they rise ; 
They seem like sullen sentinels. 

Just blending with the skies. 

The stars, they peep out, one by one, 
The birds they seek, with song, their nest. 



54 OTHER POEMS. 



The beasts lay down by murmuring streams- 
All nature seems at rest. 

But man alone still restless roves — 
Few calms are his in life's rough storm ; 
His hot and feverish mind still drives 
The restless body on. 

The beasts, they say, ne'er had a soul, 
And yet content they browse the grass, 
Whilst man, with soul and human heart. 
Few blissful moments pass. 

The *' troubled thought" within him burns ; 
He dreams of joy, but oft reaps woe ; 
His brain is taxed with doubts and fears : 
O God ! why is it so ? 

Why should the intellectual man, 

Who knows and feels the need of peace, 



OTHER POEMS. 55 



Be ever burdened down with cares 
And doubts that never cease ? 

Why is it thus, O God, I ask, 
That whatsoe'er his hfe may be, 
The very beasts that roam the fields 
Are happier far than he ? 

Perchance the Future may upHft 
The veil that hangs o'er human eyes ; 
Perchance the secret dwells alone 
With Him beyond the skies. 

Perchance — but why creeps in the doubt- 
Ah, this is what we fain would know ; 
If all were clear beyond the doubt, 
There would be end of woe. 

This is the secret spring of all 
That makes the man unhappy here : 



56 OTHER POEMS. 



In all he does, in all he knows, 

There creeps the doubt — the fear. 

But there are moments when the soul 
Feels all the sweets of holy calm, 
When every feeling of the heart 

Is touched by Nature's balm. 

'Tis when the ''evening silence comes," 
As soft as falling dews at night ; 
Then all the "heart's best feelings" rise 
And upward take their flight. 

'Tis then we feel a pure desire 
To rise and live for something here, 
And when we long with heart and soul 
To crush the doubt — the fear. 



OTHER POEMS. 57 



THE EXILE. 



Along the winding stream he bent his course, 

And ever and anon he gazed upon 

The evening sky reflected in its deep 

And tranquil bosom. The stars were not yet out, 

The birds were chirping lazily among 

The silent trees, whose overhanging boughs 

Bent down to kiss the limpid stream. 

The South 
Wind's balmy breath played softly on the leaves 
And wafted perfumes from the rose's bed. 
Nature's calm smile was heavenly sweet that eve ; 
Not like the smile that plays upon her face 
When morning's sun first gilds the turret tops 
With gold, or kisses with its early beam 
The dew-drop from the vine, but like the smile 

6 



58 OTHER POEMS. 



That rests upon the Christian's face when his 

Immortal soul is taking its long flight 

To realms above. 

He stood enraptured with 

The scene awhile, and then he sat him down 

And pensive gazed around on land and sky. 

His lips moved silently awhile as if 

In prayer — and then he spoke in tones that came 

Like music on the evening breeze, so soft 

And sad and low, — 'twas like the breathing of 

Some burdened soul — the plaintive notes of some 

Poor wandering heart. He spoke of his lost 

home. 

" My heart at eventide 
Goes out to thee my own dear native land, 
My heart goes out to thee, and as I stand 

This quiet eve beside 
This placid stream, its murmur low and deep 
Doth fill my soul with sadness — and I weep 



OTHER POEMS. 59 



"An exile far from thee ! 
The joys of home, I can no longer share — 

God! 'tis more than human heart can bear! 

A wanderer thus to be, — 
A lonely creature on a foreign shore, 
A waif, to grieve and die and nothing more ! 

" I loved my country well 
And in the blood of foemen I did lave 
My trusty sword, her honored name to save. 

And round about me fell 
Those noble heroes who would die than yield 
To foes, or cringe beneath a tyrant's shield : 

" I heard the battle-cry, 

1 saw her warriors madly dash along 

To meet the foe in numbers doubly strong; 

I saw her banner wave on high, 
And 'mid the crash of musketry and shell 
Her heroes nobly fought and bled and fell. 



60 OTHER POEMS. 



"That banner waves no more 
O'er thy green hills, my own dear native land, 
But tyrants sway the sceptre with firm hand, 

And rule upon thy shore. 
And now that freedom's flaor is torn from thee 
Thy name and fame are doubly dear to me. 

" My boy, if I could see 
Thy face once more, if I could hear again 
The voice of her that bore thee — but 'tis vain, 

I'm banished far from thee, 
And far from her and all that loved me best, 
To wander on and on and know no rest. 

" My sword hangs on the wall, 
O take it boy, and grasp it with firm hand. 
And e'er it perish save thy native land. 

And if, my boy, ye fall. 
As fall ye may, let honor crown thy head. 
And thou'lt be numbered with her noble dead." 



OTHER POEMS, 61 



The wanderer's gone, all sounds have died away, 
Save the stream's low murmurings as it flows 
On towards the great eternal sea. The stars 
Shine out as they are wont ; the moon's pale light 
Doth silver field and forest o'er, and birds 
That sung all day have sought their 'customed nest 
But he, that lone exile, still wanders on 
And on through foreign lands and knows no rest. 



62 OTHER POEMS. 



NEW YEAR. 

(January i, iS8o). 



Listen to the church-bell's music, sounding through 

the wintry air, 
Listen to its tones of gladness calling us to God 

and prayer. v 

Yester'eve the Old year died, and now the new- 
born year has come. 

And a host of earth's poor weary souls " are one 
day nearer home." 

'Twas but yester'night alone I sat within the lamp- 
light here 

Listening for the knell that tolled the last sad mo- 
ments of the year. 

And when wrapt in midnight's solemn gloom, 
when list'ning for that knell, 



OTHER POEMS. 63 



Thoughts of all the years that were came rushing 
back from memory's cell ; 

And they came to me like olden songs with ca- 
dence sweet and low, 

Calling back to life again the cherished scenes of 
long ago, 

When a mother's loving arms did press her boy 

with tender care, 
And a mother's loving heart did breathe itself in 

silent prayer. 

When the merry school-boy shouts his songs along 

his homeward way, 
When his light heart leaps and bounds as comes 

the joyous holiday. 

Faces bright with sunny smiles, the touch of some 
familiar hand ; 



64 OTHER POEMS. 

Voices soft and sweet and low, like music from the 
distant land. 

O the Present was so very full, the Future all 

aglow 
With a thousand fairy fancies in the long, the long 

ago. 

Now the busy world doth call me from the golden 

dreams of youth, 
Calls me to the haunts of men, calls me to the 

sober truth. 

Brings me face to face with all the sterner scenes 

of active life, 
Bids me battle with the foe, and bids me conquer 

in the strife. 

Calmly I have paused to-day and thought of all 
that I have done, 



OTHER POEMS. 65 



And I find that in the by-gone years there's little I 
have won. 

Dead they are, those years to me, for I can never 

live them o'er, 
I can never mend their wasted hours, never, never 

more ! 

For the future I must live, and by the lessons I 

have learned. 
In the future dim and distant lies the goal that's 

to be earned. 

Never shall I know again such blissful days as once 

I knew, 
Never feel that ardent love that burned within my 

heart so true. 

Never shout the school-boy song as o'er the hills I 
shouted then, 



66 OTHER POEMS. 



Never dream of golden fancies, never be a youth 
again. 

See, O see yon Western sky and see yon sinking 

sun so low. 
Crimson streaks and purple hues, and long white 

clouds like banks of snow, 

See how grandly he hath set, a silent splendor 

lingers 'roun', 
What a glorious life 'twould be, if all our suns 

could thus go down. 

Listen to the church-bell's music, listen, but no 

sound I hear. 
Silence marks the closing of the day that ushered 

in the year. 



OTHER POEMS. 67 



A PICTURE, 

(December 13th, 1879.) 



Sweet girl, lift up thine eyes and let me gaze 
Into their depths. How beautiful thou art ! 
A thing of earth thou dost not seem, but born 
Of a celestial realm. Lift up thine eyes — 
The mellowed lamp-light falls upon them now, 
And in their liquid depth there dwells a soul 
Of heavenly beauty. Let me speak to thee. 
How timidly thine eye-lids droop and fall 
And rise again. Upon thy forehead fair 
I'll lay my hand and smooth away these locks. 
And, leaning near thee, press thine angel form 
And feel thy warm breath playing on my cheek. 
And under thy soft chin I'll place my hand 
And bending o'er thee, kiss thy coral lips. 
There comes a rosy blush upon thy cheek. 
Ah, why is this ? Look up once more and do 
Not turn away. Why do I love thee thus ? 



68 OTHER POEMS. 



Thou artless girl, thou hast "the magic face 
Of human beauty," and thou hast a soul divine, 
A heart to love as only poets dream ; 
And this dear girl is why I love thee thus. 
And now, one gentle kiss before I go. 
Why turnest thou away with that sad look? 
No, no, tis best we part and never meet 
As we have met to night ? Are these thy words ? 
They pierce my very heart like cruel darts ; 
And yet, and yet thou sayest it must be. 
Look up, is there no lingering hope tor me ? 
O say there is! Thy lips are silent now. 
Thou wilt not say the words I'd have thee say. 
Good-night! High on the Alpine hills there bloom 
The roses and the myrtles, but the brave 
Alone can climb the giddy heights and bear 
The precious flowers home. Once more, Good- 
night. 
There comes a voice from out the busy world 
That calls me to stern Duty's path. I go. 



OTHER POEMS. 69 



ASLEEP. 



Up the stairs I noiseless creep, 
I softly ope the chamber door, 
And in I peep. 

There lay the baby on the floor, 
And fast asleep. 

And scattered 'round about her lay 
A waxen doll with golden hair, 
Some lettered blocks, 
A little shoe, a tiny pair 
Of baby socks. 

She's frolicked through the live-long day, 
'Till weary, worn and tired of play. 
Her eye -lids close. 



70 OTHER POEMS. 



And on the floor her little limbs 
Find sweet repose. 

No earthly care disturbs her there, 
No troubled dream, no waking thought 
Flits o'er her breast — 
A heavenly smile, a golden dream, 
A peaceful rest. 

And as I gazed I could but think, 
"To children of a larger growth " 
O what a balm. 

To lie amid earth's broken toys 
And sleep so calm ! 



OTHER POEMS. 71 



FATHER RYAN, 



Bard of the South, we welcome thee ; 

Thy songs are soothing to our ears ; 
Borne on the Southern breeze they come, 

Like music from celestial spheres. 

They tell of heroes who have died 
. On fields of gore in hottest fight ; 
They tell of hearts that braved the storm 
Like noble " Stonewalls " in their might. 

What though our " Conquered Banner" lies 
All torn and tattered at our feet ; 

Embalmed in song by thee 'twill live 
As long as Southern hearts shall beat. 

Thy songs are of the land we love. 
Are requiems for her noble dead, 



72 OTHER POEMS. 



Thy prayers ascend to heaven above, 
And breathe a blessing on each head. 

O in our Southern homes to-day, 
Thy tender notes fall on the ear ; 

They swell the patriot's soul with love, 
And oft there falls the silent tear. 

Sing on, sweet bard, we love thy song. 
We love thy sad, sweet notes of woe, 

For when thy hand doth touch that chord. 
The music's strangely sweet and low. 

As tender as the sighs that break 
From weary hearts by sorrow tried, 

As soft as music on the lake, 
Or organ's peal at eventide. 

Sing on, sweet bard, from shore to shore 
Thy harp's melodious notes prolong, 

And every Southern heart will love 

And bless thee for thy powers of song. 



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